


You and I (9253)

by sasuskies



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: F/M, hidden identity but not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:01:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27707333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasuskies/pseuds/sasuskies
Summary: On Monday morning, Kuroo Tetsurou finds a bound report in his locker entitled The effects of Kuroo Tetsurou spp. on oxytocin production. This leads to… maybe not catastrophe, but something quite close.
Relationships: Kuroo Tetsurou/Original Female Character(s), Kuroo Tetsurou/Reader
Comments: 14
Kudos: 42





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The author of this study is not a total stalker, despite what the premise of the study suggests. Kuroo-san, please do not think ill of the author; she may be counteractive, easy to sway, and insolent enough to send this to the subject of the paper himself, but all she wishes is to let her feelings — which are very disturbing — off her chest. 

On Monday morning, Kuroo Tetsurou finds a bound report in his locker entitled _The effects of_ Kuroo Tetsurou spp. _on oxytocin production_. **  
**

It escapes the confined space and flutters to the floor the way a butterfly would flutter to a clover leaf. Gentle in its tumble before it finally lands on the ground, the paper does not bring any malice or assumption. There is no climax, no foreshadowing, no sinister omen. Kuroo picks it up with all his five fingers.

He gives it a shake. The dust from the floor flits away with the movement. He reads the front page, clean other than the bold black splatter of the title, and his first thought is: _what are the parameters?_

The second: _who wrote this?_ Third: _is this peer reviewed?_

The answers, in order: the parameters are heart rate; degree of perspiration; number of times in a day he, the subject, is thought about. The report consisting of seven whole pages does not have a return address. It is, much to his bewilderment, anonymous. It makes Kuroo curious enough to keep on reading. He tries to find a signature, or a name that isn’t his, but he fails. 

_This study was conducted within a span of two (2) months…_

_Oxytocin is still under trial…_

_This paper is not peer reviewed,_ written on the bottom most portion of the last page, _but rest assured it is made with all my affection._

Affection. 

Kuroo’s eyebrows furrow, then they ease. He lets out a snort. Someone is unhinged enough to write this. There are graphs, he notes in awe as he flips through the pages. Not one, not two, but seven. Brightly colored but still technical, filled with data he can’t believe was somehow derived from their interactions. The words aren’t to be scoffed at either. It makes Bokuto and Akaashi’s vocabulary trysts look like child’s play. 

Someone clears their throat behind him, the rush of the minutes that lead to the first period catching up. He’s just skimming. It won’t take long. Kuroo moves aside to keep from blocking the lockers, eyes not ever leaving the page.

Should he be bothered, he wonders. There is always discomfort that comes with confessions, both spoken and written. There is always a possibility that the one being confessed to does not reciprocate, and there is always guilt that comes with being the one that doesn’t reciprocate. Either way, the air always hangs heavy during scenes like this one. It’s all well and good if everything turns out alright, but it is a tragedy otherwise. And the _otherwise_ happens more often than the _alright_. 

There isn’t any pressure like that now. Kuroo, swerving from all normal reactions to confessions, is transfixed. He is _entertained_. What he is reading isn’t a love letter. What he is reading is a research paper. 

He laughs again, trying to scan it as fast as possible. He must be an odd sight, laughing by the building entrance, leaning on the wall, head bent down to read the study. His outdoor shoes are only halfway off. He skims through the entire thing, and the closer he looks, the more impressive it gets.

_ABSTRACT. Kuroo Tetsurou spp. is a student in Metropolitan Nekoma High. He is in class 3-5. He is often associated with the boys’ volleyball team, being the captain and middle blocker. Although he is widely thought of as attractive by the general populous, his circle remains small. Interactions with Kuroo Tetsurou spp. are limited. The author is not on Kuroo-san’s radar, perhaps Kuroo-san does not know the author at all. All data from this paper are derived with the knowledge of the limitations. The author still admires him deeply from afar. This study was conducted within a span of two (2) months, although the author would admit to liking Kuroo-san for nine (9), measuring the parameters of heart rate, degree of perspiration, and number of times Kuroo Tetsurou spp. is thought about. There is shown to be a significant effect in all areas. There is a fifty-three (53) percent increase —_

The bell rings, terse and heavy, breaking him out of his frenzied daze. Kuroo tears his eyes away from the page to see the hallway empty. It took too long. He curses under his breath, folding the paper and shoving it into his bag as he runs to class, half his feet hanging off his white school-issued shoes. 

He forgets about it for the rest of the day, but not before laughing disbelievingly one last time as he climbs up the stairs.

.

.

.

The morning’s lesson on derivatives pushes the unusual confession to the back of his mind. He scrambles to keep up with how fast Kato-sensei is going. She’s spitting out terms left and right, burning through the chalk with no remorse. His pen gives up halfway. His mind follows soon after. He digests information with a five minute lag time, which truly, is far too slow. He has to wipe the sweat from his forehead by the time the period is over. Yaku, whose desk is right beside his, looks like his soul has been taken.

Yaku glares at his notes, indecipherable enough to make him wonder why he bothered taking them in the first place. Kuroo looks at his own. He feels the same way. 

He even drew at the margins at one point, when all hope was lost. A doodle of their libero with a volleyball for a head. He tears off the page and crumples it, hiding it in his pocket where it won’t start an arm-to-arm combat. 

Kato-sensei leaves for her next class, the click of her shoes fading as she moves further down the hall. The scent of her perfume lingers long after she has gone. Kato-sensei’s essence sticks to the paint. She is with them even when she isn’t. Kuroo drops his head on the armrest. With the world tilted severely to the right, he faintly registers his surroundings. Class 3-5 is as quiet as it usually is, no sounds exchanged between its walls but for the scratch of pencil on paper and the hum of the heater. Kuroo hears the class in the field right next to his seat by the window.

“One, two, three,” yells the teacher. There’s a harsh slap! when a stick hits metal. The sound penetrates through the height and distance placed between their room and the oval, piercing through the leaf of the trees and the gentle blow of the morning wind. “Pick up the pace, Kanai.” 

Kuroo’s eyes travel. Several rows back, Yui sits with her head buried in her textbook. Yui-chan is pretty. This is an immovable fact, as unquestionable as the stream of consciousness itself. Yui has always been pretty. It is easy to stare at her, pleasing, almost. Her lashes are long, framing almond eyes that are shaped in a way Kuroo has never seen eyes shaped before. If Kai is asked, he would tell anyone without reservation that Yui is, as a matter of fact, the prettiest girl in all of Nerima ward. If Yui gave him a single glance that day, the radius would extend to all of Tokyo. Kai is as objective as they come, but Yui has a way of crumbling his resolve, much like she has the power of crumbling everyone else’s. 

She and Kuroo aren’t close enough to be considered friends, but they are on good terms. They have a mutual familiarity that comes with being in the same class for three years. Kuroo would admit he did agree with Kai, rather aggressively, for a time back in second year, though he never said it out loud. If he had to procure a reason, he would say that it was the way the light shone on her cheeks. Her cheeks were what he liked the most about her; Yui’s cheeks lifted when she smiled, glowed when she laughed. Her eyes are beautiful, resplendent, but the way her cheeks scrunched when she pressed the back of her palm during boring lectures is what made Kuroo stare at her for far too long. 

He never confessed. The feelings faded away like they were never there after three weeks. It’s not like he willed it to disappear. Kuroo never thought it was a big deal, not enough to even mention it to anyone. It merely simmered out like a flame that was left alone in the concrete. 

Love, or finding it, actively seeking it out, has never been very enticing for him. He understands why other people do it, but he doesn’t see himself being the same. Sometimes he witnesses Yaku writhe about someone, about how they looked at him in a way that has him believing they’re soulmates, and Kuroo can’t help but find it all counterproductive. He is preoccupied by the team and by school and by life at home. It has crossed his mind once or twice, but the whole event brings more harm than good, and if he is being honest, the payback simply isn’t worth it. 

He sighs and lifts his aching head. Yaku is reading a passage for the next class. Kuroo should be doing the same, but instead he keeps staring blankly into space. 

Yui’s mouth moves as she reads her English textbook, lips tracing out the letters. She stops, then massages her neck. She sees him halfway through her stretch, moving her head from left to right. She smiles a bit, only the right part of her mouth tilting upwards. Yui smiles more to the right than she does to the left. It looks like a smirk sometimes. It must be. Kuroo smiles back. She rubs her opposite shoulder before looking back down her textbook. Yui is a glaringly good student too. She is made, head to toe, rather perfectly. 

A realization comes to him, dawning like a lightbulb on the top of his head. 

Shit. 

The confession must have been written by _someone_.

“Yaku,” Kuroo whispers, suddenly freaked out. A jolt of electricity has been shot through his spine at the possibility of Yui being the one sneaking the report into his shoe locker. Yaku doesn’t budge. “Yaku.”

Yaku flashes dangerously, head whipping up, “ _what._ ”

The question gets lost. Kuroo thinks. He gathers himself. Yaku’s stare tramples the seed planted in his mind. It’s impossible. What’s Kuroo going to say anyway? _I think Yui-chan might be in love with me?_ He stops before he embarrasses himself, waving a dismissing hand. Yaku brings up a fist in threat before going back to his passage. 

Kuroo digs through his bag to find his English textbook, his hand purposely trying to feel if the paper is still there. He resists the urge to take it out and read it to see if there are any more clues.

“Kanai,” yells the Physical Education teacher again. “Stop stalling. Lift your feet when you jog.”

Kuroo closes the window.

.

.

.

The rest of the day goes by in a blur. Kanai, whoever that is, gets called one more time. The English teacher looks at the window disapprovingly, but it doesn’t come as a surprise. Everyone already knows that the English department and the Physical Education department have bad blood going on for years. It has something to do with disrupting classes and messy scheduling. The birds stop chirping by the time lunch rolls around. 

The vending machine on the second floor is still as rickety as always. A large, green hunk of metal that does its job rather badly. It burps out his energy drink with more noise than necessary. Kuroo’s grateful it burps it out at all. 

He puts his weight on it, arm propped up so that his head could lean on something, his mind swimming with passages from the book — he forgot the title already — that almost sound alien due to the frequency of their repetition.

“Excuse me,” a voice behind him says. He twitches in surprise. It’s Yui. She looks at him expectantly. He forgets about the passage. 

Kuroo makes a motion, _all yours_.

Yui smiles, her fingers clasped in front of her. “Thanks.”

While the machine whirs out a can of coffee, she turns to him. “Kuroo-kun, we’re paired for the next paper on market economy.”

“Right,” Kuroo had almost forgotten. “When do you want to do it?”

She shrugs, bending down to take her coffee. “Anytime’s good.”

“I’ll come talk to you after class?” he offers. 

The can of coffee opens with a hiss. “How ‘bout I get your number?”

It’s innocent, the way she says it. Like a partner asking her partner for necessary resources for paired work. The confession flickers briefly in his mind, but he doesn’t entertain it much. It’s too far reaching. The suspicion from earlier was a result of a fried brain. As far as he knows it could be anyone. Just because Yui’s suddenly asking for his number doesn’t mean she spent her time crafting a seven-page confession. He shrugs why not and digs his phone in his pocket. 

He misses the way she smiles a bit to herself. 

.

.

.

They aren’t in rotation. It’s basic jump-block drills, but the balls keep slipping through his fingers when he could have easily shut them down. His play is off and it makes him feel nastier than usual. Coach even asks him to sit down at one point. 

The moon replaces the sun in the sky, the sound of cicadas replace the sound of birds, the stars continue to hide behind the clouds. He leaves the gym last, pocketing the key. The first years have no concept of cleaning up, so it falls on his shoulders to make sure they don’t get banned from using facilities. It’s quiet; the scrape of shoes on the gym floor is gone, so is the never ending chatter of the halls. He hears the crunch of the rocks beneath his soles. 

No one’s at school at this hour anymore. A cat prods his ankle. Kuroo sighs and reaches for it inside his bag. 

He crouches down and peels his uneaten banana.

The cat meows and licks it. It stops sparing him attention once he gives it what it wants. Kuroo leaves it be. Kenma’s already waiting for him by the gate, head bent over a game. 

The blue-tinted fluorescent of the platform makes it easy to detach from reality. He yawns as he lines up to get inside the train. The muscles in his calves are aching, and he is sure he can’t bend his knees if he tried. He shuffles inside once the doors open. 

It’s easier to think during train rides. It is prosaic, it is second nature. He’s done it a million times. And so his mind wanders. The confession is entertaining for sure, even though he knows nothing about who wrote it. He hasn’t even had the chance to read through everything. His hand is itching to take it out of his bag to see what else is written. 

He looks to see if Kenma is still transfixed in his game. Kuroo gives in. He digs it out, making sure the title can’t be seen. He flips it open, palm hiding his name sprawled in the front page. Its formatting is unmistakably like any other research paper: two columns, small font, bold headings. Kuroo thinks it’s easier to get away with reading this in public transport than reading something slathered with perfume and heart cutouts. For that alone, he is grateful. 

_— increase in heart rate. Perspiration in palms have been noted. He was thought of an average of 32.8 times per 24 hours. Inconveniences of unrequited love aside, there is a significant difference in the overall disposition of the author when around_ Kuroo Tetsurou spp. _. Sometimes Kuroo-san makes the author look like a fool, and the author finds that mortifying. Oxytocin is still under trial for its effects on human psychology, but for the sake of consistency, the author will be blaming it all on its secretion. In layman’s terms, oxytocin is the love hormone. Though common sense dictates that the author cannot be in love with Kuroo-san, she would like him to know that she finds his smile very precious._

He traces it, the word precious. It’s delicate. He resists the urge to smile like a fool. Whoever wrote this knows her way around flattery. Usually, Kuroo wouldn’t buy it, but there is something about it all that seems sincere. Or maybe he’s just tired, and Kai and Yaku’s monologues about romance have penetrated his skin. 

“Kuro,” Kenma says. Kuroo quickly covers it. He slaps an innocent look on his face. Kenma narrows his eyes, but he doesn’t ask. Kenma hardly asks. “We’re almost there.”

Kuroo shoves it back in his bag, not unlike the way he did earlier in the morning. 

He looks around the train car. He can count at least five blazers with their colors. He knows some of them. Some are in his year, different classes. Some are in other years. There is one sitting right beside Kenma. The standard white blouse and navy blue skirt. Her earphones are on. She is staring at her lap, looking mortified. Kuroo counts the bracelets on her wrist. There are three. He leans closer to Kenma’s ear, “isn’t she in your year?”

“No,” Kenma whispers back, slightly confused, slightly annoyed. “She’s in yours?”

“You serious?”

Kenma looks at him like he’s grown two necks. “Yes?”

Kuroo clears his throat. “Nevermind,” he stands up, slinging his bag on his back. The girl does the same, straightening her skirt. The doors open, and they start to move out. He doesn’t know what possesses him to do it. A split-second decision with no bearing whatsoever, a mere jerk of his neck. He looks behind him. He sees the girl staring. She quickly averts her gaze. 

Odd. 

“Kuro,” Kenma calls. 

He makes his step extra wide for show when he goes out the train door. “Yeah, yeah.”

It must have been her first time commuting. He finds it weird that someone could start so late, but Nekoma is never short on kids with silver spoons. He waits a bit. He stalls a little. He sees her after a moment. 

“Where do you live?” he asks her once she finally emerges out of the doors. He realizes the way it sounds. He amends quickly, shaking his hands as if erasing what he just said. “No, no, not that way. I mean, do you know how to get home by yourself?”

The girl blinks up at him. He blinks back. The people around them shuffle to and fro. 

“Because you seemed lost earlier, so,” he trails off, urging her to at least give him some indication she isn’t going to end up under a bridge. He sees the cogs in her brain connect. Her eyes widen in silent understanding. Her mouth opens in a small _ah_. 

“I know how to get home,” she finally answers.

He doesn’t believe her. Not really. Not how she’s looking. She’s all flustered, quiet disposition being betrayed by nerves. “You sure? Do you have pepper spray?”

“Kuroo-san,” she says. Her voice is surprisingly steady. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I know the way. Thank you for your concern.”

“Oi, Kuro,” Kenma is walking towards him looking irritated. He greets his upperclassman with a slight nod. He ignores her otherwise. “What’s taking you so long?”

“Nothing. She’s,” he’s about to gesture to the girl who looked like a deer in headlights, then he looks around. She’s gone. “Gone.”

Kenma narrows his eyes. “You didn’t hit on her, did you?”

Kuroo acts offended. He might actually be, since Kenma’s never seen him hit on anyone before. “ _No_. I asked her if she knew how to get home. It looked like it was her first time riding the train.”

“We’ve been taking the train with her since last year,” the setter deadpans.

“Really?” Kuroo says. A second of confusion. Then why was she acting so antsy? 

.

.

.

By the time he sees Kenma’s window in the distance, the moon has fully taken its place in the sky. Their street isn’t empty, the bustle — albeit only slight in comparison to the city streets — is welcome. The squares of the windows are painted by the movement inside the houses, sepia tones and warm conversation, separated by thinly veiled curtains from the sidewalk. An opened door or two lets out the scent of dinner. Kuroo looks up at the sky, feet dragging. “What do you think of love letters?”

“Hm,” Kenma keeps his phone in his pocket. “Did someone give you something?”

“No,” Kuroo isn’t lying. It isn’t a love letter, technically. 

The blond narrows his eyes, “are you going to give someone a love letter?”

“ _No,_ ” he repeats, this time with more conviction.

Kenma shrugs. “Seems a bit,” he looks at Kuroo. He stops. He isn’t going to continue, most likely. Kuroo hates it when he does this. Kenma always does this. “I don’t know.”

Kuroo doesn’t prod any further. He thinks love letters are a waste of time, but this isn’t a love letter, not really. 

.

.

.

That night, in his bed, he takes it out again. He runs his finger across the words written on the pages. 

Infatuation is normal, his grandmother always says. She repeats it far too much. She must be right. The farthest Kuroo’s ever felt was for Yui, but that wasn’t very far either. This though — he’s received love letters, confessions before, but nothing like this. 

Those were results of teenage capriciousness; harried hallway confessions given with sweaty palms and flaming faces. Kuroo had no choice but to accept them as graciously as he could and let them down as gently as possible. Not that this isn’t vain in the least. The author talks about herself a lot. The difference is that she seems eerily self-conscious about what it would sound like to him. She is achingly aware of how he might react. All the other people who have expressed their interest in him all do it without the slightest regard to what he might feel, what position they might put him in. He doesn’t think he’d ever confess to anyone because of the same reason. He isn’t comfortable with being a nuisance. The anonymity of this — whatever this is — frees him from that. 

He turns on his stomach, buries his head on the pillow and groans. He sits up again, hair sticking out even more than usual. The flicker of streetlight outside filters in through the blinds of his windows. It’s dark otherwise. It’s quiet. It usually is in this house. Kuroo stands. The floor is cold when the soles of his feet make contact. He scratches his head in frustration. He should be worrying about the market economy, but instead he is trying to connect dots that aren’t even there. He sits down at his desk with more force than necessary. His desk lamp lights up. Kuroo finally flips the page. 

_INTRODUCTION. Kuroo Tetsurou spp. always brings spares: pencils, pens, erasers, tissue. He also has an inclination for energy drinks. The author wishes him to know that energy drinks contain caffeine that can lead to health complications further down the line. Kuroo-san’s preferences — meat or fish, blue or red, left or right — is still unknown. The author will not intrude upon his privacy to gather such information, neither is she shameless enough to ask, but she does hope that one day she will get to know it from the subject himself. As the troubles of privacy and boundaries are raised, the author also has the nagging feeling that Kuroo-san might feel uncomfortable reading this confession. If so, the recipient is fully encouraged to dunk it in the trash and never speak of it again. The author respects that, although with a heavy heart, and if he so wishes, no one will know it ever existed in the first place. She would like him to know that she has no plans of collecting any of the bubblegums he has chewed, nor actively seek out his home address. The author of this study is not a total stalker, despite what the premise of the study suggests. Kuroo-san, please do not think ill of the author; she may be counteractive, easy to sway, and insolent enough to send this to the subject of the paper himself, but all she wishes is to let her feelings — which are very disturbing — off her chest._

Kuroo lets out a snort. He was right about self-awareness. 

_Despite the lack of information about the subject, and blatant disrespect to the rules of writing dissertations and publishable papers, the author will carry on. If the recipient is still reading, then he must know that somewhere on Nekoma High — perhaps Tokyo, depending on the time — someone is very happy, although truthfully, very nervous as well._

Kuroo smiles slightly. It’s strangely intimate in its diagnostic approach. His phone vibrates on his thigh, lighting up. He opens the message. 

_11:28 PM, Unknown Number: Hi, Kuroo-kun :) I hope it isn’t too late._

He stares at it, chin on the desk. It buzzes again. 

_11:29 PM, Unknown Number: It’s Yui :)_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> METHODOLOGY. Variable establishment. Kuroo Tetsurou spp. has a small circle and can often be found with other members of the school volleyball team. The connotations of this statement are (1) a lot of people know him and; (2) he does not know a lot of people. The author is not exactly content in watching him from the sidelines, but what else can she do? Shooting shots is such an old way to go about things. She will write him a research paper instead. 

_METHODOLOGY. Overview. The author started liking Kuroo-san on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. One of her friends remarked something that cannot be recalled in its entirety. The gist is that she pointed out that Kuroo-san is handsome. The author, being as fickle as she is, believed her. She does not understand why she had not noticed it sooner. It is the author’s own fickleness that has not made her come to the conclusion on her own. Kuroo-san is handsome, especially when he is biting a jelly stick between his teeth.  
_

_Kuroo-san is also kind. His kindness makes him all the more endearing. Kuroo-san is not unnecessarily mean or harsh for the sake of fun. Despite the physical attributes granted to Kuroo Tetsurou spp., it is his kindness that has struck her the most. Kuroo-san feeds the cats when he thinks no one is looking. Everyone knows that he is the reason why they never leave the dumpster behind the gym._

.

.

.

Kuroo feels overstimulated. A gate has been opened, and now it cannot be closed. He walks in hallways taking note of everyone, asking himself questions of ‘could it be’ or ‘does she write that way.’ It hasn’t been a week since the mysterious love confession showed up in his locker and suddenly he has a ranking of most likely suspects, a whole grading system devised, propping the framework up on writing ability and mental acuity and the whole mess it comes with. 

Yoshida Yui is on the top of that list.

Perhaps it’s presumptuous of him to think that, but she _has_ been texting him for the project when everything could have been talked about in less than ten minutes. It _is_ presumptuous, which is why Kuroo doesn’t mention it to anyone at all. He keeps it to himself, tucked in the uppermost shelf of his desk behind a deflated volleyball. It’s well read, edges frayed from the number of times he’s flipped it over, worn creases in its middle that are dents from the pads of his thumbs. 

He’s convinced it is her after she went on a tangent about the nuclear fusion in Tungsten the other day. Who else would talk about chemicals and relate it to _affection_ of all things… 

That is, until —

“Holy shit,” he mutters when he sees someone he never thought he’d see again anytime soon. She is hard to miss, presence and height being the same type of superlative. The last time they measured, she was only 3 centimeters shorter than he was, a fact that irked her to no end. That gap might have lessened in the six months she’s been away. Her hair has gotten longer too. He wonders if she quit volleyball. 

She points to him rudely, recognition dawning on her face. Her shoes skid the asphalt of the road. Her mouth forms a small _o_ along with her eyes. She stops, jumps, and waves. Her right hand is holding a plastic bag. It’s filled with her bread for the day, he bets. She shouts in the middle of the street with no regard to other people whatsoever, “Tetsu!”

She can’t have quit. It’s impossible. The students around them stop to look at the commotion she is making. Without warning, she vaults herself towards him before he can blink. He catches her. It’s a head on collision if he was only a second too late. She wraps her arms around him, squeezing his neck. He chokes on some of her hair.

“You’re heavy,” he says, sputtering to get it out of his mouth. His one hand reaches around her back to pry it away. He pats her shoulder in an attempt to get her body off his. “Kari.”

“Tetsuuuu,” she prolongs her syllables like a kid. He laughs dryly. She wiggles her head, pretending to cry on his shoulder. He wouldn’t be surprised if his blazer actually gets wet. It’s too early in the morning for her dramatics, but it has been a while, so he guesses his tolerance has built up. “It’s been so long,” she mumbles. “I’m never leaving again.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he drawls. She finally lets go. He pats her cheek. “You look like shit.”

“I know,” she gushes in complete agreement. Self-appearance has always been her strong suit. He’s missed her the same way one would miss a pet. Hikari sometimes acts like an unwashed Shi Tzu. “Kyoto is so cold, look at me,” she pinches her cheeks for emphasis, forcing him to look, walking sideways. They pass by the perennial singular bench, the same untrimmed grass, the untouched cream walls. She looks like she has been handed heaven. Nekoma should pay her for her devotion alone. “I’m so pale. Not to mention the uniforms there – yellow! Yellow blazers, skirts. The blouse is this _ugly_ shade of cream. Tetsu,” she says, completely grave. “I looked like a dripping egg walking around.”

The hallway is darker, for which his eyes are thankful. His ears don’t get the same rest. 

“Do they even allow mid-year transfers here?” Kuroo opens his locker. The swinging door covers her face. He takes out his shoes. There is no confession that falls today. 

“I’m not a transfer kind of transfer,” she defends. “I know the school words, school code, school hymn. I’m a Nekoma girl at heart.”

Kuroo smirks at the look of haut on her face, “so, Nekoma girl, do you plan on staying?”

She rolls her eyes. “I never planned on leaving, but whatever. I’m going to graduate here. And I’m getting back on the team. And I’m going to whip the girls into shape. And we’re going to beat Niiyama at the interhigh. I want to wipe that smirk off Yokune’s face. That smug looking bitch better watch out—” 

“Language,” he chides. He doesn’t really care. She’s been like this since as far as he could remember. “So early in the morning.” They turn a curve. “What class are you in?”

“3-3,” she announces, adjusting the strap of her bag. The sound of the crumpling plastic by her wrist is so utterly her that it resurfaces memories of scratchy knees and bike pedals, a tall girl with mud on her cheek telling him to stop being so quiet. “It’s a bit further down.”

Kuroo halts, reaching his door. He stations himself in the middle, both hands holding either side. He shoots her a smile. “Well, good luck on your first day, Kari-chan.”

She blinks. “It isn’t my first day. I’ve been loitering around here since Sunday.” 

She waves goodbye.

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.

.

If Kuroo Tetsurou (there is no spp. attached to his name, he keeps reminding himself, because he might actually slip and let it out) were to describe himself, he would never come near the word presumptuous. He never dips his toes where it shouldn’t be, except maybe when it involves his team, and even then, he’d never talk to them about it unless they opened up to him first. He knows his limits, and he never bites off more than he can chew. He might be slightly ambitious, slightly too conniving, but he is never presumptuous. That is why he cannot explain why his mind is implicating people left and right. 

Hikari’s been here since Sunday. It would have been easy to slip it in. She knows his locker number – it hasn’t changed since before she transferred in their second year. Which is stupid, because the text doesn’t even match her personality. They’ve known each other since they were kids, and the one who put that in his locker is obviously a stranger to him.

It’s possible, he argues with himself as he takes a seat. They’ve never cut contact. He messages her when he has the time, sometimes they even call late into the night. She complains about Kyoto while he hums in agreement to placate her. It’s easy to fall into an infatuated daze in cases like this, according to Yaku. According to Kai, who agrees with Yaku, it isn’t normal to have late night phone calls, talking about meandering circumstances and parental devotion. Hikari isn’t exactly normal. He runs a hand through his hair. 

The ordeal is tearing his brain by its stitches. He’s been trying to find out who wrote it for the past couple of days, albeit unconsciously, and each passing hour he feels worse. It involves him believing that all his suspects actually like him, which is debilitatingly stupid to conclude. Calling them suspects in his head like he’s some bigshot when he truly has never cared about whether or not he has a fanclub. He doesn’t, he’s sure. 

The world does not revolve around him, he stupidly reminds himself, but that paper had forcibly slapped heat vision glasses on his eyes, crumpling his state of blissful ignorance. Tetsurou has no other choice but to grapple at people and group them into hot and cold. It makes his head hurt.

“You look like shit,” Yaku says. 

Kuroo snaps back into reality. He rubs his temples. His fangs bare, “you look short.”

In the next moment, they are holding each other by the collars, moving across the room in a dangerous tango. A few chairs get bumped, a few pencil cases fall to the floor. No one in 3-5 is surprised anymore, only mildly annoyed. Yaku hisses. Kuroo hisses back. 

“You wanna fight?” Yaku goads. Kuroo doesn’t throw the first punch, but he does throw the last. 

.

.

.

“You shouldn’t have riled up Yaku-san.”

Yui writes in her notebook in neat kanji under the shade of the old willow tree. On its bark there is an engraved heart. The shadows play on top of her head, dancing with the thin capsules of light that are able to get through spaces. The way she hums her words in time with the breeze makes it impossible to catch what she’s saying. Kuroo moves closer, legs spread to straddle the wooden bench. “Come again?”

She sighs and repeats herself, pen not halting. 

He moves his sore jaw. It doesn’t hurt that much. It doesn’t hurt at all. His hand comes up to massage it. His eyes narrow, squinting under the afternoon glare of yellow. “I didn’t start it.”

Yui sighs again, “still, Kuroo-kun, you’re –”

“Yo, asshole!” he doesn’t have to look up to know who it is. “You got practice later?”

Yui does though, and her left eye narrows. The pen successfully halts. “Hello?”

Hikari stops, taking notice of his companion. “You’re,” Kari points her finger, tongue sticking out. “Yoshida-san… Yuri… I’m shit at names, but I remember you. Give me a moment… Yui!”

Hikari smiles, triumphant at her little victory, arms at her waist. Yui smiles back. Kuroo tilts his head to get a better look at her. The silence doesn’t stretch. It snaps so suddenly that even the birds don’t dare move. Kuroo likes to think he can read people well. It comes with years of trying to decipher what’s going on inside his mother’s head. Combined with piecing together all the things his father doesn’t say, Tetsurou believes he can catch the signs of hostility early enough. Yoshida Yui is pissed. 

Kuroo lets out a confused laugh. Yui’s patient temperament fades a little. Her eyebrow twitches. Hikari is as oblivious as can be. Kuroo wonders why his partner is so riled up, but then again, Hikari is never short on people who want to smother her. 

The breeze blows. The table under the willow tree that has been there since as far as Kuroo could remember holds three people. Two for a supposed project, the last one’s intentions still unknown. 

“Nakayama-san,” Yui says, letting go of the pen. “You’re back.”

His friend waves her off, taking a seat. “Hikari-san is fine, no need to be so formal. No one calls me Nakayama anyway.”

“Yeah,” Yui chimes in impatiently. “What do you need?”

Kuroo almost chokes on his spit. He coughs into his wrist. His eyes move to the court where the ball is.

“Tetsurou and I need to discuss the gym scheduling.”

One downside to having Hikari back is that she siphons the gym scheduling like it’s her lifeblood. She fought the third year captain of the Boys Volleyball Club in her first year all because she felt like they hogged the gym too much. She even went as far as to drag their captain with her to appeal to the principal. Kuroo has never heard a better rant on sexism in sports than what Hikari had orated to Yurata-senpai. 

“Kuroo-san and I need to discuss our project in economics,” Yui shoots back. 

“Ah,” Kuroo puts up his hands in surrender, slightly disturbed at the going-ons. A minute ago he was thinking about tax cuts. “Alas I am but a man —”

“Shut up, Tetsu,” Hikari shoots up. “You’re obviously doing something more important. I’ll come back later. Don’t think the gym is all yours because I was gone for a night.”

Yui clears her throat once she’s gone. “Where were we?”

Her pen starts writing again. 

.

.

.

Onigiri tastes better when it’s being paid for by someone else’s pocket. Kari is never stingy. It’s a quality of hers he finds most endearing, especially when he is on the receiving end of her generosity. 

“Missed you, ugly,” he ruffles her hair, his image of her being softened by free snacks. She giggles, chewing happily on her food. There’s a grain of rice on her cheek. He munches on the tuna filling.

“Course,” she says over a mouthful. She wipes the mess with the back of her hand. “My dazzling presence, my weakness when you ask me to buy you food. What’s not to miss? Where’s Kenma-kun?”

Kuroo shrugs, “second year hallway.”

She lies back on the rickety platform. Above them the clouds float like cotton on blue water. Students aren’t allowed on the rooftop technically, but technicalities aren’t always what is. It’s a little miracle that no one else is here. She brings a hand up and closes her right eye. 

“It’s dirty there,” he reminds her. Around them there are discarded mops, buckets, old television sets that no one bothered to throw out. No one bothers with the rooftop of this building anymore. The green metal door they went in through is sprawled open because it has no other choice. It would tear in half if someone attempts to close it.

She doesn’t pay him any heed. “Ya wanna surprise him?”

“Nah,” he replies, looking below the edge where the cement parapet meets gravity. What he sees are limited to the tops of trees and the rust-stained roof of Building C. “You’ll just embarrass yourself. He’s got like, you know…”

“He’s got what?” 

Kenma sometimes gets exasperated by Kari’s antics. Hikari hovers over people too much like a mother hen, and Kenma is an adolescent who is disgusted by human touch. Kuroo tries to find the right words. He rolls it on his tongue. “The teenage disposition.”

“Ah,” she laughs. “Tetsu, he’s had that since we were in elementary school.”

“You were pretty different in elementary school too, come to think of it,” she was brasher, louder, up until the move. Now she’s more subdued. Not calm, exactly, but melancholic. There are slithers of doubt behind every story she tells him. It’s something that wasn’t there before. He wonders what really happened to her. 

“And you were so shy,” her voice is teasing. He doesn’t have to face her to know she’s smirking. 

“I’m still shy now.”

“No,” she quickly shoots. “You’re like a flower. Newly blossomed and ready to be picked.”

He coughs, choking on a bite. He’s been choking a lot today. She pats his back. The sheer force of it makes him cough even more. Something happened to her, Kuroo is sure, and he wonders why she won’t tell him. 

“Okay, now,” she says, moving her hand consolingly. “The girls team gets the gym Mondays to Thursdays.” 

“Oi, oi, oi, oi — you expect us to —”

“We have a bigger chance at Nationals. You can have Fridays. I don’t want them.”

“You don’t,” he spits. “Your third years won’t play the spring interhigh anymore. The team captain is a second year. You don’t have your libero because Hana messed up her ankle, not to mention Kitagawa for –”

“Fuck!” Hikari is gone, shooting down the platform. She slaps the green door with a resounding _bang_ before she flies down the stairs. For a minute, Kuroo hears nothing but the sound of her rushing down steps and a palm dragging the metal railings.

Kuroo watches her vault through the campus from the view of the rooftop, no doubt about to harangue the other third years who quit. She runs like she does track, bumping about two, three people who get in her way.

Kuroo laughs, prodding the rice stuck between his molars with his tongue. “Idiot.”

He leaves soon after that, bouncing down the stairs himself, a self-satisfied smile on his face. He whistles as he enters Naoi-sensei’s office. Sensei asks him what he looks so smug for. Kuroo makes him affix a signature underneath the agreement for good measure. 

.

.

.

“Where’s dad?” he asks in the middle of dinner. **  
**

It’s not unusual for him to be back so late, but Kuroo likes to fill the silence. His grandmother graces him with a gentle smile. “Work. You know how it is.”

They are interrupted with the violent ring of his phone. Grandmother looks up from square spectacles, perfectly penciled brow cocked. Kuroo lays his chopsticks and excuses himself as he ducks out to the adjacent room. 

He answers the call, and what greets his ears is a screech of: “you sacrilegious pig!”

“What?” he asks, blinking. He moves the phone away from his face. The contact reads Hikari’s name. He guesses he deserves that. She went away for six months and suddenly her senses have been dulled by the countryside. The world is cutthroat, and there are no friends in gym scheduling. “Ah, good evening to you too.”

She huffs from the other line. “I’m never falling for your shit again, Tetsu.”

She gives one last mangled screech before she ends the call. 

Kuroo doesn’t feel triumphant – truly he doesn’t – but he can’t help the smile that escapes. Hana’s ankle was fine after she tripped last week, and the third year girls signed up for the tournament the same way the third year boys did. It’s not his fault Hikari hasn’t been caught up to speed. She trusts people too easily. The only reason why she always gets what she wants is because she is as obstinate as a bull. 

It rings again. 

“Good evening,” the voice on the other line says. The tone is more gentle this time, a complete flip from the reeking hostility he had just experienced. This person doesn’t have a vendetta against him. “Is now a good time?”

“For the tax paper? Sure,” he’ll have to scarf down dinner and do the plates. “Give me five minutes or so.”

“Um, okay,” Yui says. “This is your house right? The one with the hydrangeas beside the gate?”

“What?” Kuroo’s bodily functions halt. He bolts to the window in record time, peering out the crack of the curtains. “Oh what the fuck.”

.

.

.

_METHODOLOGY. Variable establishment. Kuroo Tetsurou spp. has a small circle and can often be found with other members of the school volleyball team. The connotations of this statement are (1) a lot of people know him and; (2) he does not know a lot of people. The author is not exactly content in watching him from the sidelines, but what else can she do? Shooting shots is such an old way to go about things. She will write him a research paper instead._

_The interactions between the dependent variable (author) and the independent variable (_ Kuroo Tetsurou spp. _) is scant. The block design is randomized, the author admits with a crippling sadness. She sorely wishes the block design is not randomized and that she could come talk to him whenever she so wishes. Due to the foreseen circumstance of the devastating lack of interactions between variables, constant vigilance has been observed in the past two (2) months._

_This does not mean she hasn’t tried talking to him. She has, truly, but he is so tall it flies right past his head. Perhaps if more potent methods are to be used to get his attention then she would succeed._

_._

_._

_._

“And she went to your house?” Hikari asks. 

“We had a misunderstanding,” Kuroo explains. Hikari isn’t well suited for coffee shops, but she always insists on it. Waking Kenma up at ten in the morning is harder than the task of waking up at ten in the morning, but when Kari calls for a coffee date, whatever that means, no one can refuse. “I told her we’d do it that night. I meant that we would do it over the phone and compile it the next morning, but she thought we were, you know…”

Hikari barks out a laugh. The coffee almost spills. She says, “how’d she know your address?”

Kenma looks out the window, “I asked him the same thing.”

Kuroo shrugs, suddenly feeling like he’s interviewed behind a one-way glass. They were supposed to be catching up, not interrogating him. He doesn’t even know how they got to this topic. “It’s really not a big deal —”

Kenma takes a sip of his iced coffee. They are in a hole in the wall spot that’s near Nekoma. The tea is decent, and so is the cake. Kenma must be itching to go to the stand that sells games across the street. “It sort of is.”

“Who are we talking about again?” Hikari asks. The red sweater she’s wearing makes her stick out from the warm bulbs hung like vines on the ceiling.

“Yoshida Yui,” Kenma reveals. Kuroo is about to chastise him for giving names so freely, but then Kari’s eyes widen. 

“She’s interested in _you?_ ”

Kuroo has no clue how to begin responding to that. 

Kenma nods, a bit sage, a bit knowing, before going back to nursing his straw. They don’t speak about it any more because Hikari starts telling them about how she saw Sakusa Kiyoomi on the train the other day. Kuroo tells her she can’t be right because he lives in a different ward entirely. She sticks out her tongue and tells him no, she’s always right and that he owes her. 

“Owe you for what, idiot?” 

That is the end of that conversation. At least, Kuroo thought.

“She’s the one that gave you a love letter, isn’t she?” Kenma asks while they wave off Kari, who has to get back to cram school in time. He’s scouring through the aisle full of games, eyes moving as he reads titles. The cramped space makes Kuroo stand still. One wrong move and he could send a whole shelf flying. Kenma takes one box out of the stack before cringing and putting it back.

There’s no use lying to Kenma, so Kuroo just grimaces. “I think so.”

Kenma peers up at him, his hands tucked in the pockets of his hoodie. “You don’t know?”

“It was anonymous.”

“That’s… inconvenient,” he takes one game, then two. Kuroo watches him in his natural habitat, above chipped, soot-stained tiles and upturned cases. He moves to pay.

“Maybe it isn’t her. But it could be her. I don’t know,” Kuroo explains. The steady _teet_ of the cashier plays beneath the hum of the heater.

“What do you plan on doing?”

“Preliminaries are in the corner. That stupid owl bastard probably grew 6 centimeters since we last saw him. The economics paper was time consuming too, so now I have to catch up with a lot of other stuff.”

“But you’re bothered,” It isn’t really a question. Sometimes Kuroo wishes Kenma would practice filial piety and pretend he doesn’t see right through him. 

“‘Course. It’s –” Kuroo groans. “I don’t know.”

He deposits his new games in his bag. Kuroo bets that the window of his room is going to be bright at three in the morning. “Let me read it then.” 

So Kenma reads it. He sits in the corner beside Kuroo’s bed while Kuroo paces around like a lost chicken. What Kenma says next throws him into another hole – deeper, darker – instead of getting him out of the first one he was already in. 

“You know Kari has an excellence award in chemistry, right?”

Kenma shows Kuroo his phone. The screen is opened at instagram. Kuroo hardly does social media, so he wouldn’t know whatever it is that’s going on with other people. He has accounts that he hardly ever visits. He keeps up with Bokuto and Kari well enough through text. If he did open it more often then maybe he would have known sooner, processed this information a bit faster. In the picture is Hikari smiling, holding a medal in her hand. On the gold plate is the word chemistry, bold and clear. Kenma is never known to be helpful. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thots are always welcome!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> METHODOLOGY. Morphological analysis of the phenomenon. There is a saying about butterflies (Rhopalocera) being felt in the stomach when a specimen is confronted with its object of affection. It incites a wild, irrational feeling similar to that incited by being dropped from the depths of the stratosphere and hurtling towards the earth without pause.

“Who is she?” Lev asks rather obtusely. 

“Wrong question!” the _she_ booms. She gives him a self-satisfied smirk. “It’s _‘what can she do for you?’_ ”

“Huh?” somewhere in a corner of the gym, Yaku laughs nervously.

“Beanpole!” Hikari points, stance wide. It’s a stance worthy of the Nekoma girls’ volleyball team middle blocker, former captain, perhaps reinstated captain, though no one is sure yet. The sun is at her back, which makes her shadow fall on the polished wood of the floorboards in nothing short of menacing. She is but a silhouette by the double doors, a figure that incites fear and deference. “Why do you flit around so much? One blow and you’ll be in another court entirely.”

Kuroo finishes tying his shoes, deciding enough is enough. He gets between them before she does irreversible damage. “No talking to my first years.”

She ignores him, moving her head to take a better peek at the new addition. “Damn. You’re a first year? How tall are you?”

“194…” Lev gulps. He’s taller than she is, which is one of the mysteries of the universe. She should be clearing two meters with how much she intimidates everyone. Lev’s eyes search the gym for help. Yaku is pointedly cleaning the balls, Kenma is nowhere to be found, Kai is looking at the lights like they were just invented. “Point three…”

She grins, genuinely impressed. “Fantastic. So close to two meters. I think you can still grow. Reach?”

He gapes at her. Kuroo, for all his fondness, wants to lug her out and close the door. No amount of free meals can stop him glowering at her. 

She snaps her fingers. “Jump.”

Lev readies himself to jump. 

Kuroo puts a hand on his shoulder. He gives her a scalding look. Kari is gone, in her place is a monster that rears its head during tournament season. It’s too bad he’s the same. “Don’t jump. Go practice your receive with Yaku.”

Lev doesn’t spend one more minute in her presence. 

Kuroo crosses his arms in front of his chest. “The gym is ours now.”

“I know, hog,” she raises her brows. “That’s why I got us a slot at the local stadium.”

Kuroo’s eyes widen, “you’re insane.”

“If the school won’t share its facilities with us and would rather give it to the boys team –”

“You’re not playing this card again.”

She might. He knows her. He knows how unhinged she is, enough to actually attempt it again. She won the last time she used it, so why wouldn’t she try one more time? 

“I might. Watch your back, Tetsu. Even your cute face can’t stop me from getting what I want.” She kicks his shin. To prove her point, if he has to guess. He stops himself from attacking her. They’re friends, he reminds himself. She’s helped him through a lot. Kari’s just nastily competitive. He hears Kai chuckle somewhere in the background. Kuroo shoots him a glare. She turns and leaves, shorts skin-tight on her ass. 

“Who is she?” Lev asks again once she’s out of earshot. 

Yaku slams a ball on his chest. “The devil incarnate.”

Kenma decides to finally show himself. His timing is impeccable. He must have been hiding out back. Naoi-sensei enters just as she’s about to exit. The steady bump of the ball on the wall repeats itself like her echoing footsteps. Nekofuma-sensei trails behind him in his standard red tracksuit, carrying a clipboard. 

“Oh?” she waves, she stops. The planes of her back stand tall and clear. “Hey, sensei, miss me?”

The older man laughs, a big and booming noise escaping his homely chest. He looks surprised to see her. Though Kuroo has to admit, it’s normal for people to be surprised to see her. It’s like a war general decided to come back from the dead. She starts chatting without preamble. 

“How are you, coach? Has your health been well? My jump reach skyrocketed these past six months. They made us do this drill in Kyoto. We had to…”

“She’s back,” Naoi-sensei mutters, looking daunted. He leans closer to Kuroo, not quite using him as a shield, but close enough. A falling sky reigns upon Naoi-sensei. He is Sisyphus, and she is his rock. His distress paints the room seventy shades of grey. His usual solid demeanor shows a single crack under the pressure she radiates. “I thought she moved to Kyoto.”

“She moved back.”

“… so, sensei, I was thinking, I think the boys’ team has a better chance at Nationals if we practice together. It’s good for my girls too because the boys are actually quite good.”

His team isn’t _quite good_. Their team made it to Nationals more than they have, sure, but his team isn’t _average_. 

“Yes, yes, quite good aren’t they?” Nekofuma-sensei answers, amused. He’s humoring her. He always humors her. 

“And Ito-sensei went on leave I heard…”

Kari should try to shoot her shot at acting. She probably won’t succeed since her face is too big. Nonetheless, her effort at nonchalance is one of the most valiant he’s ever seen. 

“Yes, yes, I heard that too.” Sensei sucks in a breath, smile never leaving his face, “Nakayama, out with it. You want me to help you.”

“Would it be too much to ask?” _it would be. The old man isn’t responsible for the girls team._ “We don’t want to be a burden, but it would be a waste to not give our all for the spring high this year.”

“Show me the drills first, then we’ll have a little match between you and the boys —”

“Sensei,” Kuroo comes to stand in front of him too. Kari’s said too much. Usually, Kuroo wouldn’t have a problem with other teams coming in to join from time to time. But not them. They distract the second years, they intimidate the first years, and they get on the nerves of the third years. It must be a sight. Two towers hovering over the old coach, both with hands on their waist, ready to aim their piss higher than the other. “We drew up a contract. You, me, and Naoi-sensei. We did it yesterday.”

“I wondered what made you do that, Kuroo. Now I know.”

“What contract?” Hikari asks.

“Gym schedules. Team practice.” Kuroo holds up the piece of paper he procures from the pocket of his jacket. “Full attention prior to the National qualifiers.”

She grabs it quickly. “You got a typo at _ko_. It’s —”

“Doesn’t matter,” he cuts. 

“It does,” she challenges. “Contract integrity.” 

“Is that even a thing?”

“Children,” coach booms. He clears his throat and looks at them expectantly. They stop bickering.

“Yes, sir.”

“Get me a pen. Let’s draw up a new contract.”

“What?” Kuroo chokes out. “No — why?”

Sensei smiles, “because the girls team wants to practice with us.”

“No,” Kuroo says. He isn’t being unreasonable. Half his members can’t focus with other people around. If they want to have a shot at Nationals, then there shouldn’t be any distractions.

“Kuroo,” he lowers his head. Nekofuma-sensei peers at him through a lidded gaze. It’s a gentle chastisement, one he isn’t used to. Are a few jump drills worth it? “Get a pen.”

Kuroo swallows. He turns around. “Who’s got a pen?”

He is greeted by silence. No one has a pen. Fifteen people inside the gym and not one pen between them. Kuroo faces forward, “no pens, sir.”

No pen, no contract. Shoot, score. 

“On it, sensei,” Kari chimes happily. She’s rushing out the door.

Kuroo is beside her in a second, using all his self control not to push her into the mud in a streak of childish pettiness. She comes in and starts marking her territory _now,_ when things are at their most crucial. She moves to building C, no doubt about to find a pen. He moves to the opposite direction out of spite. He’s running the second he sees her gone. 

He arrives at the hall, hand coming to grip the railing. It’s almost empty, what earlier had busy traffic is being crept up by the lateness of the day. He looks around frantically. Kari can’t get back earlier than him. She’d no doubt swindle what she can. 

He turns a corner. Tetsurou bumps into someone. The other person lets out a grunt. He realizes it’s the girl from the train. 

“Sorry,” Kuroo immediately says. “Are you okay? Do you have a pen?”

She looks as though she’s riding a very fast motorcycle. Her insides are getting a whiplash, or something of the like. “Excuse me?”

“A pen,” Kuroo says again. He feels as though one apology isn’t enough. “Sorry about that. Really sorry. You’re not hurt, are you? Do you have a pen?”

“No… yes,” she replies, visibly confused. She isn’t procuring a pen. 

He urges, “can I borrow it?”

“Yes,” finally she moves. She digs her hand into her skirt pocket and brings out a shiny black pen. 

His savior. He smiles, relieved and ready to bolt back. “Thanks.”

She nods, eyes pretty. Her lashes are fascinatingly long. Kari must be running back now. 

“I’ll be quick. Thanks, um,” he doesn’t know her name. “I’ll return it later.”

He leaves the hall and bounds back.

.

.

.

 _METHODOLOGY. Morphological analysis of the phenomenon. There is a saying about butterflies (Rhopalocera) being felt in the stomach when a specimen is confronted with its object of affection. It incites a wild, irrational feeling similar to that incited by being dropped from the depths of the stratosphere and hurtling towards the earth without pause. The author feels that way when_ Kuroo Tetsurou spp. _is around. It is like she is being flung from the sun, set ablaze by its flames, orbiting around it in a dizzying velocity. Her tongue feels dry, her head feels light, and she becomes monosyllabic. She is rather confident in her intellect, but even that is lost when Kuroo-san is around. It is very inconvenient. How is she expected to dazzle him with her wits when she loses it whenever he enters within a one (1) kilometer radius? The whole ordeal is a brewing fiasco. She wishes it were easier to manage._

.

.

.

“Lev’s gotten better,” Kuroo muses between the library walls, blankly staring out the window. Yaku’s writing something about something, seated as far away as possible from their other companion.

He doesn’t even budge from his syllabus. “He might actually be an ace when it comes down to it.”

Hikari leans in, “the tall guy?”

They are seated in a way that she would squish Kuroo everytime she decides to bicker with Yaku. Kuroo is unfortunate enough to be sandwiched between two loudmouths inside a quiet space.

“Yeah, the one you almost ran to the ground. He might. When we’re gone.”

“Man, I don’t want to think about being gone —”

“Kuroo-kun,” Yui appears holding a binder to her chest. She eyes the contents of the table: books scattered, assignments unfinished. She adds another to the pile. A box of orange juice. It’s cold, and the condensation starts to drip on Yaku’s scratch paper. “Here. I thought you might like this.”

He clears his throat, “thanks.”

Hikari’s eyes widen, she perks up in her seat. Her jaw slackens when she sees the juicebox. Yui walks away with a wave and nothing more. Yaku hisses and moves his paper somewhere else. Both of them look at him like he’s grown another head.

 _No food is allowed inside_ , says the sign that is staring him in the face.

They leave the library soon after.

Kari has been going back and forth between his classroom and hers, between his house and Kenma’s, between Kuroo’s love and Kuroo’s hate. She ducks into her class when they pass it. He detests the confrontation she thrives in, but he feels as though he has no other choice but to comply. He holds her very dear – he would never admit it – and she needs someone to anchor her when she starts spinning too fast. The issues regarding the gym have come to a halting compromise. The boys team gets Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, the girls team gets the days in between. It’s a free-for-all on the weekends.

“Figure it out with civility,” the older coach had said. This roughly translates to: They could dismember each other for all Nekofuma-sensei cares.

The cap of his water bottle slips between his fingers and falls to the floor. He bends down to pick it up. He smells rubber. He stops, noticing a pair of shoes in front of him.

“Your pen,” he blurts when he sees the shoes belong to the girl from the train. He’s been too swamped lately that he forgot to give it back. With Kenma messing with his mind, steering him off course, Kuroo hasn’t gotten much sleep lately. Kuroo scratches his head in apology. “I’m really sorry. Truly.”

Yaku starts texting someone while he walks away, leaving the two of them alone.

“It’s alright,” she waves her hands, looking surprised he managed to remember her at all. “I still have others.”

Guilt starts to consume him. He already made a bad impression on the train, then he almost sent her flying the other day, then he got her pen without even knowing her name, he then forgot to give back said pen which is now lying somewhere in the depths of his gym bag. “Do you mind if I run back to get it? It won’t take long.”

“I— I’ll wait.”

He does as he says. Kuroo notices the juicebox he’s still holding. Would Yui mind? It’s his now. Does she like orange? Everyone likes orange. He figures he should at least give her something as an apology.

She’s still standing, leaning on the railing, when he comes back. The tip of her shoe is tracing the cracks of the floor. She looks down, her mouth must be tracing her thoughts. He sees the corner of her lips pull downwards to keep them in. He clears his throat.

“Orange?” She asks, eyelids fluttering to see the juicebox, looking disgusted. She slaps a hand over her mouth. She looks away, biting her tongue, blushing furiously. “Nevermind, I’m not — sorry, I —”

Kuroo’s more intrigued than offended. “You don’t drink orange juice?”

Her hands wring by her sides. “Only kids drink orange juice.”

“What do you drink then?” he challenges. He’s never seen anyone so averse to the flavor, glare at it like it’s done something offensive.

If possible, her brows furrow even more. “Cranberry?”

“Cranberry?”

“Cranberry.” she nods her head tentatively. “It’s the best there is.”

“Why cranberry when you can drink orange?”

“Do you want to drink the juice, Kuroo-san?”

“That’s the thing – I can’t,” he finds himself admitting. It would have been rude to reject it from Yui, which is why he didn’t say that anything at all. He doesn’t even know the name of the girl who lent him a pen, and yet he’s telling her about his dietary practices, giving her the juicebox he can’t touch because of the jump reach he’s trying to maintain.

“Why?” she asks. “You can have it, if you like?”

She offers it to him, her hand jutting out, her wrists jingling like a noontime tune. She’s wearing too many bracelets. She wiggles the box.

Kuroo hugs himself, palms crossing in front of his chest. “I can’t. I’m giving it to you.”

“I’ll accept…?”

She clears her throat. After a second, she stabs in the straw and takes a sip, white slotting between the pink of her lips. He watches her expectantly. She grimaces.

He grimaces too. So much for an apology gift. “Not good?”

She coughs, “it’s good.” A lie, tall and blatant. “If you like orange.”

“You’re the first person I know who doesn’t.”

“I’m glad I can be Kuroo-san’s first.”

It’s disarming. Kuroo’s eyes widen. She must feel the same way too, right after the words leave her mouth, because she bites the inside of her cheek. A whistle blows, saving them from the pregnant pause that would have resulted from her slip of tongue.

“That’s – that’s my physical education class. I have to go. Thanks— thank you. Sorry.”

“Yeah,” noticing she isn’t dressed in standard uniform, and instead a white practice shirt and track pants.

Looking out the window five minutes later, he sees the pen owner’s class taking laps around the oval. He watches her as she clumsily runs a sprint when she should be doing a jog, head bent and panting.

.

.

.

.

.

“You’ve been here since what? Last week? Why have I only seen you now? It’s not like you to be all secretive.”

Saturday brings a light drizzle as Kari brings another tupperware of bread. The gym is yet to be worn in for the day, the ends of her hair is still wet, the air still smells like the lavender freshener stationed in the corners of the beams, only half of the people expected to attend practice have arrived. 

“The move was tiring — Tetsu, look, it’s a rabbit.”

“Idiot, don’t change the subject.”

“Hah. I’ll tell you soon,” she cringes, spinning a volleyball with her thumb. “Or something. Maybe I’ve fallen in love with you and can’t … ugrh smooch smooch, Tetsu.”

“Go away,” he groans as he pushes her face off his. 

“It’s… I’ll tell you.” About the blank stares, the minutes she spends zoned out, minutes when she just stares at nothing. “Soon. When I’m braver.”

When has she ever been a wimp, he wonders. He remembers the girl who asked him if he liked volleyball, who demanded him not to be so shy, taught him how to toss. The one who had repeatedly made him eat mud until he finally got the courage to drag her to the puddle and let her taste it too. She’s still here, isn’t she? Kuroo is afraid she might be lost, and worse, he wouldn’t even know why.

Kari stretches her shoulders. “Warm-ups! Get into it.”

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.

.

The paper is left untouched in his bookshelf back at home. He considers throwing it out. He backtracks. That would be too aggressive. In the end, after countless nights of writhing, he decides to let it be. He doesn’t plan on playing detective, not anymore, no matter how many names Kenma sends him. 

_2:32 AM, Kenma: Maybe not Kari. nvm. doesnt sound like her_

_2:32 AM, Kenma: I asked her abt oxytocin and she looked at me weird. I asked her abt research papers and she asked me if i smoked weed._

_2:32 AM, Kenma: She cant lie_

_2:33 AM, Kenma: Not her_

_2:33 AM, Kenma: Yano from 3-4_

_2:33 AM, Kenma: Maybe someone from 2-2_

_7:34 AM, Kenma: Kuroo give me money_

_7:34 AM, Kenma: Left my wallet at home_

_7:38 AM, Kenma: Shirakawa_

_1:32 PM, Kenma: Kodawaki from my yr keeps talking about u_

_1:32 PM, Kenma: Kuroo give me money again_

He checks his phone, 6:56 PM. He considers blocking Kenma. Kuroo wonders why he’s so invested. It isn’t like him to be so. It must be because Kenma likes seeing him squirm. He considers asking Kenma about Kari too, but Kuroo is sure he doesn’t know either. If Kenma knows and he doesn’t, then he’d take it personally.

The confession is the last thing on his mind now. He resents it for making him lose sleep. He needs to focus. He has a whole team to take to Nationals, younger kids who want to succeed even more than he does. Teshirou’s already getting ahead of himself, and Fukunaga looks like he’s been spending even more time in the gym on weekends.

The train is littered with students going the same way. Blazers and skirts trimmed with their colors, bright and muted at the same time. It’s hard to feel anything in trains. He sees the girl again. He sees her a lot, now that he thinks of it, and each time she gets better at commuting. Her bag is bulky. He wonders if she put stones inside. He still owes her an apology for making her suffer through a flavor she so clearly detests.

“Do you still like cranberry juice?” he begins, leaning close so she can hear.

She peers up at him, removing a pink earphone. “Um, hello. Yes?”

They sway to the steadily decreasing acceleration of the vehicle. He digs into his bag. She cranes her neck closer to see, expecting something, most likely. He wonders how someone as small as her can carry a bag as big as what is on her back. He wonders if she takes twice the number of subjects than what they are supposed to. He digs for a second, and then two. He closes his bag with a definitive zip. “Too bad I don’t have any.”

She gapes at him, then snorts, her hand coming to cover her mouth. He laughs as well. The doors open with a melodic ring. 

She sobers, traces of mirth still playing in her eyes. “Bye, Kuroo-san.”

“Hey,” he calls. She whips around. 

“Hm?” it’s impeccably light, the way she questions him. Kuroo feels like he’s floating.

“I never got your name.”

He feels like such an idiot asking. He knows he’s not the friendliest guy out there, but he’s not socially inept either. He should at least know the people he goes to school with. She makes him feel like a soldier going to war without a helmet. He expects her to laugh again. They are in the same year, after all. He wouldn’t fault her if she found him odd. What she does boggles him even more; she smiles kindly, like one would to a friend.

“Ichika.”

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.

Kai flicks his forehead at cram school the next afternoon. Kuroo wipes off the mud on his shoes by the door when he’s suddenly slapped in the back by five other people. 

“Is it real?” Kai asks in urgency. His face is too close. So are the others gathering around him. 

Kuroo looks around, “real what?”

“You and Yui-chan.”

 _What?_ “No.”

 _What the hell?_ She gave him a box of orange juice and now they’re together? He and Yui were paired together for a project that is already over. Yui gave him juice from the vending machine. Yui went to his house, unintentionally moving his grandmother close to a heart attack. His grandfather had to calm her down with green tea spiked with whiskey.

Whatever they are, they’re certainly not _together_. 

Kari looks at him, “are you?”

“What? No!” of all people, she should be the last one to ask. She’s been with him all day, all week. She’d notice if he’d gotten himself a girlfriend, especially one as high profile as Yui. 

“Still, man, you gotta —”

“Hey, hey, piss off,” he quickly ducks out, not really in the mood for this kind of conversation. Yui’s great, but he doesn’t like her in that way anymore. He notices an opportunity, golden and blazing, from the corner of his eye. He calls out, “wait up.”

Ichika turns around, signals with her finger as if to ask _me?_ Kuroo nods his head a smidge too eagerly. He thanks his lucky stars she happens to be in the same building. 

She gulps visibly when he considers putting his arm on her shoulder. He sees her discomfort and runs his hand through his hair instead. She asks, “what is it, Kuroo-san?”

“Keep walking.”

She muffles a screech. Her strides try to keep up with his. She’s in the same year, takes the same train, roams the same set of places, and it’s only now that he’s noticed her. She’s been saving his ass a lot lately. Her hair is done in a braid, it’s the first time he’s seen her ears. Somehow, her having a silver loop on the top curve of the cartilage has him wondering more about, well, her.

“I owe you. So much. A lot. Do you want anything?”

“Um,” she stares. 

A silence passes. 

“Anything… anything is— is good.”

Kuroo nods, and with a grave countenance says, “I’ll try to find anything for you.”

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.

 _METHODOLOGY. Psychological analysis of the phenomenon. To be completely honest, the author finds whatever she is feeling hard to explain. She can discuss the physical manifestations — how she loses all cognitive function, how her hands become sweaty, her mouth becomes dry — but she cannot discuss the methods of healing these symptoms. She cannot map herself out of this, nor can she explain her thought process regarding_ Kuroo Tetsurou spp.

_The author tried to come up with reasons she feels such, but the superficial points being written down would bring embarrassment to her, and an embarrassment to the recipient as well. She doesn’t know Kuroo-san very much, but she had aimed to talk more about him than she talked about herself. That much was not achieved. Perhaps if they were closer, she could tell him about how he has different smiles for different people, but as this remains a hypothesis and nothing more, she will carry on with a begrudging sigh._

_As the why remains half-answered – although the author would argue that the why does not possess an answer, merely conjectures and hypotheses, as the terms of affection are lost upon the sea of the unexplainable: the feelings she possesses cannot be run through applications, it is intrinsic, instinctual, primal; the very pillars of complexity still to be explained by the scientific method, unexplainable therefore – the author is left with no choice but to proceed. The next portion of the paper aims to answer the how of the phenomenon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are chocolate


End file.
